


Pros and Cons

by Salr323



Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: Episode: s02e12: Beach House, F/M, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-18
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 23:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4157646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salr323/pseuds/Salr323
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The truth – the kind of truth that ambushes you in the middle of the night – is that he’s still into Amy."</p><p>Episode tag for 'Beach House.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pros and Cons

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first Brooklyn Nine Nine fic (probably not my last). Treat me gently!
> 
> Thanks to fried_flamingo for the beta - and for introducing me to the show in the first place. :)

When Rosa leaves, whisky in one hand, phone in the other, Jake slips into her seat on the couch. He pretends not to notice Amy sleeping it off in the corner next to him. He doesn’t even look at her, beyond an initial first glance. But he knows she’s there, the way he always does, although he tries not to think about her too much these days. He’s learned to distract himself from that particular lost cause.

So he plays a couple more games of quarters until Holt calls it a night and Terry follows suit. Boyle heads back out to the hot tub with Gina – he doesn’t even want to guess what that might mean – and Scully and Hitchcock disappear upstairs to the kitchen. Which leaves him and Amy, alone. 

He should probably wake her up, help her to her room, and pour her into bed. But he doesn’t move. Instead he closes his eyes and drops his head back onto the sofa. He’s not drunk, not really. He learned fast undercover how to fake it, how to drink just enough to be convincing, but not enough to lose control. Funny thing: when your life depends on living a lie, it isn’t so hard to stay sober. And this weekend he knows he can’t lose control, not with all his newfound certainties shifting beneath his feet; there’s no way five-drink Amy should meet five-drink Jake.

But it’s nice to just relax and he slips a little further down the sofa, getting comfortable, starting to drift off… 

It’s much later when he resurfaces, roused by a warm presence at his side, something heavy resting against his shoulder, and the scent of Amy’s shampoo filling his head. He opens his eyes to find her curled against him, her hair falling over her face and one hand lying on his leg.

His heart kicks hard against his ribs.

_Get up. Wake her up and put her to bed._

These are all things he should probably do. But what he does is let his head sink sideways until his cheek is resting against her hair, pretending to be asleep with Amy warm at his side and her slow breath tickling his neck. 

_Smart, Peralta. Mature._

He reminds himself that he’s over her. He told her how he felt, she told him that nothing would happen between them and nothing did. So now he’s with Sophia – who he likes a lot and who makes him feel like he’s actually capable of having a mature relationship with an adult woman – and he and Amy are just friends.

It would be perfect – it _is_ perfect – except for that night in Vermont, that horrible moment of euphoria when Amy had confessed that she’d, maybe, liked him too, once. A little. And now he doesn’t know what to think, because he’s not the kind of guy who cheats or plays games, or who’s careless with people, and he truly likes Sophia. Yet the feel of Amy’s body, all soft and relaxed against him, tugs at a yearning he can’t deny.

The truth – the kind of truth that ambushes you in the middle of the night – is that he’s still into Amy.

He could kick himself for being so stupid. He has Sophia now, so why can’t he just let Amy go? A resounding silence answers that question, but he figures that sitting there with her sleeping on his shoulder definitely isn’t helping. So he sits up, gently disentangles himself, and grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa. He’s just laying it over her when she opens her eyes. 

“Hey,” she says with a drowsy smile, and lifts a hand to touch his face. “It’s you.”

“It is,” he manages, pushing the words past a sudden tightness in his chest. He sits down next to her again, like he’s tethered there. “Feeling better?”

Her face scrunches and she licks her lips. “Ugh. Maybe.” She looks around. “Is there some water?”

He fetches a glass from the bar and she pushes herself upright, pulling the blanket closer to her while she drinks. “What time is it?” she says between sips.

“Oh-dark-thirty.”

She nods like it makes sense. He thinks she’s somewhere between drunk and hungover, more mellow than usual but definitely not herself. He really should help her find her room and then go to bed, but instead he flops back next to her on the sofa. He knows it’s a bad idea, but he’s feeling reckless. “So it turned out okay,” he says. “With Holt, I mean.”

“Yeah,” she says, although he doubts she remembers ‘Real Ray, or Fake Ray?’ But then she turns her head where it’s resting on the back of the sofa and smiles at him. It’s one of those rare, soft Amy smiles that used to make his stomach flip. It still does. “It was nice of you to invite him,” she says. “I’m sorry we were so weird about it.”

“Nah, you weren’t weird. Anyway, the captain understood. He’s a pretty cool guy.”

“He is.” There’s a moment then, a heightened pause, before she says, “You’re a pretty cool guy too, Jake.” 

He doesn’t want to admit how the fond expression in her eyes makes him feel, so he brushes her off with a shake of his head, a deflection. “Well thank you, Hungover-Amy.” 

“You’re sweet,” she insists, “and romantic.” She points an accusatory finger at him and he realizes she’s still pretty drunk. “I did not have that on my pro list, by the way.”

“On your what list?”

“My pro list,” she says. “Pros and cons.”

“You have a list of pros and cons – about me?” 

“About whether to date you or Teddy.” She looks at him like he’s stupid. “You don’t make that kind of decision without a list, Jake.”

He doesn’t answer right away; he’s kinda lost his voice and has to clear his throat before he can speak. “You were thinking about dating me?”

“I made a spreadsheet.”

“Of course you did.”

She gives him a rueful shrug. “You lost.”

“Okay.” He really should stop right here, but inevitably he says, “I so want to see that list!”

“Can’t,” she says, with an emphatic shake of her head. “Deleted it.”

“No! You deleted the list?”

She sighs, settles back against the sofa so they’re looking at each other. Her legs are curled up under the blanket and the weight of one knee is resting against his thigh. He doesn’t think she’s noticed, but he feels it all the way down to his toes. “Doesn’t matter,” she says. “You’re with Sophia now.”

“Sure am!” He hopes he doesn’t sound as uncertain as he feels. “Sophia’s great.” 

“And you’re great,” she says. “You’re a great boyfriend, Jake.” 

“I—” He wants to agree, but his bravado deserts him. She always sees right through it anyway. “My life’s kinda crazy, Amy. You know that.” 

“The crushing debt and crummy apartment? Your terrible diet?” She gives a grave nod. “They were all in the ‘con’ column.”

It’s a little brutal, so he fakes a smile and says, “Okay.”

“So was ‘juvenile.’”

“I prefer ‘boyish.’”

“Unreliable.”

“‘Mercurial?’”

“Fickle.”

“Hey!” He gives her shoulder a gentle shove. “I object. I’m very loyal.”

Head cocked, she says “Objection sustained, Detective. But remember, I hadn’t met Boyfriend-Jake when I made the list. I only knew Weird-Dead-Guy-Sex-Jake.”

“Come on…! You put that on the list?”

“Uh, yeah?” A flare of indignation surfaces, making her eyes shine. “Jake, you had sex in a mortuary!”

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you?”

“JAKE, YOU HAD—“ 

He claps a hand over her mouth. “Joke. _Don’t_ say it louder.”

She doesn’t. She doesn’t say anything at all. Her eyes have gone wide and he can feel her lips beneath his palm, her face under his fingertips, and they’re so close their body heat mingles and grows until it flushes his skin. 

He thinks: I want to kiss her. I want to kiss her _right now_.

He lets his hand fall away. Her gaze is still locked with his and she licks her lips. “We’re both quite drunk,” she says in a subdued voice.

“Yes we are.”

“And you’re a good boyfriend.”

He sighs. “Yes I am.”

She reaches over and brushes her lips against his cheek. “Goodnight, Jake.” 

Then she gets up and walks on unsteady legs toward her bedroom. He doesn't offer to help her; he’s smarter than that. He just lies on the sofa, pulls the blanket up to his chin and thinks that he’s probably not as great of a boyfriend as Amy or Sophia imagine.

When he wakes up the next day he can hear people talking in the living room – Amy’s voice is among them – and he can smell the tantalizing aroma of coffee and pancakes drifting down from upstairs. He’s stiff and muzzy from lack of sleep, and he doesn't see the note tucked under the blanket until he sits up and it falls onto the floor. He stares at it for a moment, blinking the sleep out of his eyes until he recognizes Amy’s precise handwriting and reaches down to pick it up. On it she’s written: 

Jake Peralta – pros: funny, smart, unpredictable, exciting, brave, honourable. A good friend.

He just stares at it for a while, grinning. Then he tucks it into his pocket. He knows they won’t talk about it, that he won’t use it to tease her – she wouldn't have left it for him if she didn't trust him – but she gives him an awkward smile when he walks into the kitchen and he grins into his coffee.

Overall, he thinks it’s been a pretty good weekend.


End file.
